


Eight

by makeit_takeit



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: 2008 Summer Olympics, Canon Timeline, Established Relationship, Historical Accuracy, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 22:29:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15981845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeit_takeit/pseuds/makeit_takeit
Summary: Ryan's POV on Michael's quest for eight.





	Eight

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ on 4/28/2009.
> 
> Generally lax on the grammar, punctuation, clarity of communication, etc., because you know - we're inside Ryan Lochte's mind, here. Please set your expectations accordingly.
> 
> For reference, list of events, in order, is below. And probably anyone reading this is already aware, but event finals were held in the morning sessions in Beijing.
> 
> 1\. 400 IM  
> 2\. 4x1 Free Relay  
> 3\. 200 Free  
> 4\. 200 Fly  
> 5\. 4x2 Free Relay  
> 6\. 200 IM  
> 7\. 100 Fly  
> 8\. 4x1 Medley Relay
> 
> And, lest we forget, in the midst of all that hype Ryan also won two bronze and two gold medals of his own, including an individual WR in the 200 Back.

1.  
  
_Good swim son_ , Phelps says, and palms his head. _You too kid, nice fuckin’ race_ , and a hug across the ropes, and that’s that. If it had to be someone, Ryan’s thinking – if it had to be someone, at least it’s Mike. Cseh’s a different story, he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that one hurts like a motherfucker, but he’s willing to chalk that up to the churning in his guts that’s had him hunched over the toilet for the last 36 hours. Some fucking luck, that, after all the work, and after being so close at trials - but then again, it would’ve had to be perfect to win, fucking stars aligning and shit, and how often does perfect happen?  
  
20 minutes later they’re laughing behind the medal stand, and Ryan can fuckin’  _feel_  the relief coming off Phelps. Not quite himself, still wound tighter than hell, but at least he cracked a smile, and that’s something. That pressure valve’s releasing a little bit of steam, and Ryan  _almost_  feels like he’s glad the way things shook out, for Mike’s sake. Almost, but not quite, cause that’s just not the way he thinks. He’s got himself to worry about, and Mike’s a big boy. Ryan’s no fucking sacrificial lamb.  
  
On the bus back to the village it’s one iPod with the earbuds split between them, riding without speaking, shoulders crammed together in seats that were obviously not designed for swimmers. And there are empty seats, room to spread out, but who wants to spread out? It never occurs to either of them not to sit side by side. Ryan stares out the window all the way back, lights and sights he can’t quite comprehend flashing past, and his hand snaked under the bag on Mike’s lap, resting between his legs.  
  
2.  
  
On deck at the warm up pool, Michael blinks when he sees Ryan standing there. Just a split second, a momentary flash, but there’s not much Lochte knows better these days than Mike’s fucking  _looks_ , and he reads that blink like it was words, tattooed across Michael’s forehead.  
  
Ryan shrugs back, eyebrow raised. _Of-fucking-course I’m here, what did you think?_ Ryan knows exactly how important this one is, exactly what it means for the rest of Mike's week, and he figures it calls for a little above and beyond.  
  
Hands in his pockets in his team warm up as the four of them file past, heading for the ready room. _We got this, guys. Time to kick some French ass._  
  
Lezak grins, slaps his back. _Fuckin’ right._  
  
Jones and Weber-Gale, half-terrified and half-ready to jump out of their skin with anticipation, barely manage to grunt. Then Phelps comes by and gives him that steely-eyed nod, jaw clenched, that sends a hot wave through his chest. Every fuckin’ time. Ryan grins, cause that’s his job. _Come on and show me something, Phelps. I want the fuckin’ boosters kicked in, ya heard?_  
  
The lip ticks up a little on one side, sly glance out of the corner of an eye, and a smirk. Mike sticks his fist out in Ryan’s direction. _Just watch, we’re doin’ this thing._  
  
Knuckles knock together; _You know it, kid._  
  
And watching from the stands ain’t all it’s cracked up to be; it’s worse, Ryan thinks, so much fucking worse than being down on deck. Vendt is grabbing his shirt, yelling _fuck, dude, they fucking got us_ – then Ryan’s hitting Eric’s leg, _no fuckin way, he’s dying, we got it,_ _we got it_ _!_ He screams so loud his eyes are watering, his face is red, and when the board registers USA in the top spot, the team goes fuckin bananas. He sticks around for the medal ceremony, but fuck if he’s waiting around till after the press conference. He sends a text, _hit me up when ur back_ , and hops the next bus out, feeling a little like he’s been hit by one.  
  
_Back._ Hits his phone about an hour later, and he takes the stairs two at a time. They could’ve been roommates and skipped all the bullshit, but fuckin Bowman wouldn’t hear of it. Like that kid’s gonna get distracted by  _anything_ , least of all by the likes of me, Ryan’s thinking with a snort, when Mike’s door opens and he finds himself yanked inside by the back of his neck, shoved against the wall while the door slams shut.  
  
_What would Bob say?_ Lochte grins a shit-eating grin, and Phelps grins right back. The energy is coming off him in waves, Ryan’s getting rocked by them as they hit.  
  
_Fuck Bob. There’s only one way I’m getting any fucking sleep before tonight_ , Mike is saying, and his fingers are under Ryan’s shirt, yanking it up, tugging it off.  
  
_If you’re blowing anybody it should be Lezak, dude, he fuckin earned it, fuckin 46 flat, can you fuckin believe that shit?_ Ryan is babbling, while Michael’s dropping in front of him, licking his stomach.  
  
_What would it take for you to shut your fuckin mouth?_ Mike mumbles, but Ryan knows he already knows the answer.  
  
_Not a bad fuckin morning_ , Ryan says later, when they’re both naked and sweaty and spent, sheets tangled and feet hanging off the too-short bed.  
  
Phelps snorts and shoves him, sighing deep. _Yeah, it was ok I guess._ His lips curl at the edges as his eyes close.  
  
3.  
  
Getting his ass up and over to the cube by 10 is not Ryan’s idea of a fun way to spend his off-day, especially for a race where no one on the planet has a fuckin prayer of even touching Phelps. The alarm goes at 7 and he rolls over just long enough to grab his phone. _Do I need to witness the massacre in person, or does watching on TV count?_ 45 seconds later and he gets _don’t bother, shit is wrapped up._ Fuckin  _sweet_. He sets the alarm for 10 and turns back over.  
  
4.  
  
Ryan’s watching from the tunnel, standing in the corner of the deck in his warm up, and something’s off. He can tell by the way Cseh is hanging so close, making Phelps look almost human, and if there’s one event where Mike is so completely  _not_ human, it’s the 2-Fly. That last turn, the one where Phelps usually rockets off the wall in a way that says _I’ve just been playing with you fools up until now_ , the statement isn’t as convincing as it should be, and something is definitely off.  
  
Mike rips off his goggles, throws them at the deck and Ryan knows right then what’s up. And hey, he’s been there, everyone has, but it’s a fuckin _World Record_ and a more gold medals than anyone in fucking  _history_ , and what the fuck  _ever_. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, thinking fuckin perfectionist doesn’t even  _start_  to cover it, shit, and he heads back down the hallway to get stretched out.  
  
5.  
  
In the ready room Mike is still pissed, all twitching jaw and eyebrows pulled down tight, and Ryan’s just hanging back, talking to PVK and trying not to let Phelps stress him out. All Mike needs is a little clean water in front of him and he’ll be fine, Lochte knows that, so he just chills, and once they’re both behind the blocks screaming their heads off for 7 minutes – seven  _fucking_  minutes, dude – it’s like fuckin Goggle Gate never even happened.  
  
They step up onto the podium, hands clenched together, and it’s maybe not necessarily kosher to talk during the national anthem, but fuck it; they just won a gold medal together, so they do anyway.  
  
For once Ryan’s the one with the toughest schedule that night; Phelps gets off the elevator with him back at the village, steps into his room and lets the door swing shut, grabs his collar and lays a hot, wet kiss on him. _Kick some ass tonight._  
  
_You too_ , Ryan grins, letting his bag drop and falling into bed while Mike sees himself out.  
  
6.  
  
Fuckin  _finally_  is all he can think when he looks at the board. No more also-ran, no more 2nd place, no more coulda woulda shoulda bullshit. World Record, individual gold, and suck on that, bitches.  
  
Mike’s waiting in the hall, grin splitting his face from ear to fuckin ear.   _Guess you think you’re a fuckin pimp now, huh?_  
  
_I don’t think kid, I _know,__  Ryan grins back, and Mike’s arm wraps around his neck and pulls their foreheads together, but keeps walking, doesn’t slow him down; if anyone understands how tough it is pulling a double it’s Mike. They hit the deck at the warm-up pool, the arm drops, and it’s business as usual. Including the part where Mike smokes everyone in the 2-IM, and Ryan has to settle for bronze. But _what fuckin ever dude_ , he’s got a gold in his bag and he can feel the pressure level dropping, race by race, can see Mike’s face starting to look less like a mask and more like the real thing, and ain’t nothin’ wrong with life today.  
  
_Ya know I got the whole night_ , Mike points out as soon as they hit the bus home from the cube.  
  
_You really think I didn’t notice that shit the day the schedule came out?_ Ryan’s grinning and Mike just nods, keeps his eyes up front while he slides his hand under the waistband of Ryan’s warm ups.  
  
_I never fucked an_ _individual_ _Olympic gold medalist before._ Mike’s got him up against the bathroom door in his room, panting on the back of Lochte’s neck.  
  
_Dude, I highly recommend it. You been missing out._ Ryan groans as Mike’s tongue snakes around his ear, and Phelps  _knows_  that gets him every fuckin time.  
  
7.  
  
It’s over for him, he’s got nothing but time now, and somehow that makes him feel the stress on Mike’s behalf like he hasn’t all week. When the media talks about it, they never talk about how fucking unlikely it  _really_ is, about how Mike’s already been the recipient of one miracle with that fuckin 4 by 1 relay, and everybody conveniently forgets that unlike every other fuckin race, the world record holder in the 1-Fly will not be swimming in Mike Phelps’ lane.  
  
_It’s Phelps though_ , he’s thinking as he’s sitting in bleachers watching the girls swim, and if there’s anything he’s learned in the last 4 years it’s that Mike can pull off shit you never thought was possible, like it was nothing. And that shit extends outside the pool, for the record.  
  
Whitney’s down at the rail, waving him over, _did you see him this morning?_ , Debbie wants to know. _Last night_ , Ryan says, hit with the images of last night totally against his will, and he’s forced to adjust himself. _He was good, he was ready_ , and he’s thinking, actually Whit we didn’t talk about it, our mouths were busy doin other shit, but he keeps that part to himself. Whitney nods, eyes getting that steely look, it runs in the fuckin family, and she flashes him crossed fingers and walks back up the stands.  
  
The tension is crazy in the bleachers, people screaming the whole last 25, but Ryan’s quiet, just watching, thinking, who the hell does this Cavic dude think he is? Cause who he’s  _not_ is the guy who beats Michael Phelps, that’s for fuckin sure. If that’s gonna be anyone, it’s gonna be Ryan, he’s fuckin earned the right, and when the results come up he just nods, _I fuckin told you_ , even though he didn’t tell anyone but himself.  
  
Mike screams and slaps the water, valve releasing more steam, cause all that’s left now is a relay, and if that one doesn’t come out right at least it’s not gonna be his fuckin fault, and now his name is next to Spitz in the record books, even if it doesn’t end up on top.  
  
They didn’t talk about tonight; silent understanding that depending on how things went, Mike might or might not need him, for celebration or for consolation either one. So Lochte sends a text, _let me know_ , and grabs some Mickey D’s back at the village.  
  
_Get your ass up here_ comes through while he’s down the hall checking email, and he’s at the door of Mike’s room in about 2 minutes flat.  
  
Mike pulls him into the room, hands on either side of his face and tongue down his throat before the door even closes.  
  
_You still have one more race young man_ , Ryan’s smirking, panting against Mike’s lips.  
  
_You didn’t give a shit about my other races when_ _you_ _just won_ , Mike points out, smirking right back with his hands in the waistband of Ryan’s pants, tugging, _and how’m I supposed to rest up for the relay tomorrow with all this fuckin adrenaline pumping?_ He’s pushing Ryan backward towards the bed, following along and stripping off clothes as he comes.  
  
_So really, this is like a public service?_ and Ryan’s shoving back now, hands on Michael’s hips, pushing him onto his back and tumbling on top of him.  
  
_Something like that_ , Mike mumbles against his neck, mouth wet and eager.  
  
_And America will never know what I had to do in the name of -_  
  
Lochte snorts as teeth close on his shoulder.  
  
_\- patriotism_ , he hisses, and Phelps flips him over, pins his arms. Ryan shouldn’t be surprised anymore at how strong Michael is, but sometimes it still takes him off guard. Considering what a skinny fucker Phelps is.  
  
_Time to shut the fuck up now_ , Mike growls, and Ryan just nods.  
  
8.  
  
Ryan sees on the big screen that Mike has tears in his eyes on the Medal stand, and has to bite the inside of his cheeks and look down at his shoes to keep from losing it.  
  
He knows Mike’s got a fucking billion things to do, so he heads back to the village, grabs some lunch, plays some cards, and waits. Watches the Costas interview from his room, tries not to think about how every fuckin person who means shit to Mike is there to share the glory, except him. He’s asleep when the knock on the door comes, and when he opens his eyes he doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s dark outside.  
  
Bare chested, with crazy hair and sleepy eyes when he opens the door, and Mike just smiles, a small sort of smile that makes his eyes go soft, the kind that’s just for small children, baby animals, and Ryan. _Sorry I woke you_ ; it’s almost a whisper.  
  
_Are you fucking kidding me?_ Ryan steps back to let him pass, the door swings shut, and in the dark they both stumble to the bed. Ryan falls in while Mike shucks off his clothes, then slides in next to him.  
  
_Proud of you, kid_ , Ryan breathes it against Mike’s neck as their arms wrap around, their lips meet, slow and soft, no urgency and no restrictions, and Mike whispers _you too, baby_ , against Ryan’s mouth. Steam valve is empty, pressure is gone, masks are off, and there’s nothing left to prove for either of them. They’ve got all night, skin to skin, whispering in the dark, and despite what the polls on nbc.com might say,  _this_  is the best moment of the Olympics so far.


End file.
